


We Are the Same

by shell



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street, Southland
Genre: Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-16
Updated: 2009-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim Bayliss was back in the rotation, coming out of a funk, when he caught one hell of a case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to Dove and Panisdead (even if it was occasionally beta by semaphore). Thanks for helping to nail down some plot, and also lots of encouragement, to Dine. Written for the fusion square on my cliche bingo card. Spoilers for Homicide through season 7 and Southland through season 1. This was written just after season 1, before any additional seasons aired, so it's been thoroughly Jossed.

_ Now the struggle has a name_  
We are the same, it hasn't changed  
I still feel the same

_\--The Struggle Has a Name, the Tragically Hip_

It was the Monday after June 25th and before the holiday weekend, and Tim Bayliss was coming out of a funk. Conversation around the squadroom was finally about more than just Michael Jackson, and that was just fine with Tim, who had permanently soured on the guy in the early 90s.

He was on his lunch break, sitting at his desk, when there was a tap on his shoulder, interrupting the chanting on his iPod. "Yo, Bayliss, we got a call," Lewis said once he took the earbuds out of his ears. "We're meeting Cooper and his rookie at a decomp, sounds like."

"I love the smell of decomp in the morning, don't you, boys?" Clarke said.

"Yeah, yeah," Tim said, waving distractedly. "Go work on your novel, why don't you." Clarke flipped him off. Tim knew what Russell was going through, stuck on administrative duty until he was cleared through medical, but he still found the guy annoying.

"You be primary for this one, okay?" Lewis said as they approached the car. Tim remembered what happened with Frank his first week as a detective and hoped Lewis had grabbed the right keys--going back and forth between the air conditioning and the sun too many times gave him a headache.

"I got a bad streak going," Lewis continued. "You, though, you're golden, what with how you handled the Sheppard case. You're like Howard was before she made lieutenant."

"I'll make you a deal, Meldrick. We're partners now, yeah?" Tim said, looking at Lewis, who for once was not wearing his hat, probably in deference to the heat. Tim had worked with several of the detectives since he came back, but he and Lewis had settled into a groove the last few weeks.

"Well, you could say we were already partners, what with the bar and all, but, yeah, Bayliss, I guess we're partners now."

"The thing is, when I was partners with Frank, he always drove. And I was okay with that, you know, because Frank, for the most part, didn't try to get me killed. But I know how you drive, Meldrick, and I am not okay with that. So I'll be primary on this one on one condition: from now on, I drive." Tim tried for the perfect firm yet casual tone, hoping it worked.

Lewis looked at him shrewdly. "Okay," he said after a pause. "After all, you got shot and all, and Frank done left you for some cushy teaching job--I'll let you drive. Partner."

Tim nodded, taking the keys. Neither of them brought up Kellerman. They both knew Lewis was lucky he still had a job after FID ruled the Luther Ruiz shooting unjustified.

They got a radio call on their way to the decomp. Turned out the body was none other than former Officer William Dudek, which made things a lot more interesting, if by interesting you meant "clusterfuck." Tim was surprised they hadn't already given the case over to Major Crimes. Then again, Dewey wasn't exactly well-liked at Central, and Major Crimes was investigating Jackson's death.

There were a couple extra squad cars pulling up as they got to the seedy apartment complex where the call had come from, although it didn't look like the ME had gotten there yet. The apartment was about what Tim had expected--dirty dishes piled in the sink, a pizza box on the coffee table, and empty bottles on the floor. A uniform Tim didn't recognize pointed them towards the bedroom.

Cooper, his rookie, and Chickie waited inside the room, along with Dewey's body, dirty clothes, and more empties.

"Officer Cooper," Tim said, nodding in acknowledgment. Cooper was looking solid as ever, shoulders back, chest forward, but Tim could tell by the way he had his left foot just a little in front of his right that his back was probably bothering him again.

"I heard you were back on rotation, Bayliss. I don't think you've met my partner, Ben Sherman," Cooper said, gesturing at the guy next to him, who had dark blond hair, a generous nose, and blue eyes. The academy marksmanship medal was hanging on his impeccably neat uniform.

"Nice to meet you, sir," Sherman said, shaking his hand.

Tim gave Cooper a look. "Did he just call me 'sir'?"

Cooper nodded. "Yeah, he does that. I thought he was Canadian at first."

"You detectives going to get to work any time soon?" Chickie asked pointedly. "It might be nice to know how Dewey died."

"Universal justice," Cooper pronounced. "Or maybe karma? What do you think, Buddha Boy?"

"Nah, Bayliss don't believe that karma shit no more, do you?" Lewis asked. Sherman looked between the two of them, head tilted to the side.

Tim ignored them all and looked at the body. Dewey was laid out diagonally on the bed, naked, a crumpled pillow lying next to him. His hands were lax, his expression faintly puzzled, a silvery streak of dried saliva on his chin. Tim leaned in to examine the face more closely. There was a faint dusting of fuzz stuck to the saliva, the same color as the pillowcase. He looked in Dewey's eyes.

"Petechial hemorrhages here," he said. "Looks to me like someone suffocated Officer Dudek with a pillow, maybe when he was too drunk to fight them off--there's no sign of a struggle. Whether that's karma or not, I don't know."

"ME on her way?" Lewis asked, coming over to look at the body.

"Dr. Cox? Yeah, she called; she's stuck in traffic," Sherman said.

Of course it would be Julianna, Tim thought, losing his focus for a minute. She was a good ME, though. Stay with that, because, asshole or not, Dewey was still police. He deserved their best, and that was Cox. They might not like each other much, but he and Cox could still work together.

The CS people showed up next, started bagging and tagging. There wasn't much else for him to do inside, so Tim headed out to check on the witness statements.

Sherman had spoken to the landlord and the neighbors both, gotten their contact info, even some useful information about the kind of visitors Dewey'd had in his last days. He reported the information in an organized manner, reading off his notes like he'd been taking witness statements for years instead of months. Tim gave Cooper another look, all, "you've been schooling him," and Cooper looked back at him, "nah, the kid's got the stuff." So Tim thanked the kid as sincerely as he could with uniforms present.

"Just doing my job, sir," the kid said matter-of-factly.

"You've got the makings of a decent police here, Cooper," Tim said, grinning. "Try not to screw him up too badly, all right?"

Sherman looked at Tim, assessing, and the corner of his mouth turned up just a hair at the compliment.

"Hey Bayliss?" Cooper said, pointing at his chest. "Nice fucking tie."

"Fuck you, John." He hadn't even realized which tie he was wearing--typical of Cooper to notice.

"Any time, Tim."

"Yeah, yeah," he answered, waving Cooper off. "I've got witnesses to interview."

The witness statements were a bust, so he and Lewis headed out to make the notification.

The house they drove up to was small, not in the best neighborhood, with a ten-year-old Saturn parked in the driveway. When Patty Dudek answered the door and Tim introduced himself and Lewis, she shook her head and said only, "This can't be good," then gestured for them to come in. The living room she led them into was neat and clean, even if the sofa looked like it had seen better days.

She wasn't exactly broken up about her husband's death. She didn't seem like she was celebrating it, either, but it wasn't the blank stare of someone in denial--she just didn't seem to care much either way.

"Our divorce is--was--supposed to come through in three days," she said. "I guess this means I'll still get his death benefits. That would have pissed him right off." That thought clearly did not displease her.

"Mrs. Dudek, can you tell us where you were last night?" Lewis asked.

"Great, so now I'm a suspect, huh? Thanks a lot, asshole," she said to the ceiling. "It was bad enough being married to you, and now I get to be interrogated by detectives. Wonderful."

"Yeah, you're a suspect--you want to tell us where you were, or you want us to keep thinking of you that way?" Tim said, annoyed. He understood that Dewey was a lousy husband, but you'd think his widow would show a little instinct towards self-preservation, if nothing else.

"I was at a party with some friends," she said, glaring at them.

"Where was this party? You got a list of people who were there?" Lewis asked.

"It was over at my friend Carmen's house, but I don't know about a list of people--I'm not sure people would want it advertised they were there, if you know what I mean," she said, shifting in her chair and looking away.

"No, I do not know what you mean, and I would think that clearing your name as a possible suspect would be something your friends would want to do," Lewis said pointedly.

"Look, we don't care what you were doing at this party--we're homicide, not narcotics," Tim added.

"Narcotics--you think I do _drugs_? I may have been stupid enough to marry Billy, but I'm not that stupid. It was a sex toy party, all right?" she said, her cheeks flushing. "I'm sure Carmen and the hostess would verify I was there, although I was hoping to leave them out of this. I bought something, so the hostess, she ran my credit card--that should be enough, shouldn't it?"

"It should, yes. What time did this party end?" Tim asked.

"Late," she answered. "I think I got home around 1:30? You can ask my friend Juana. She gave me a ride home. She's going to be thrilled to have to talk to you guys, I have to tell you."

"They have sex toy parties? Women do that?" Lewis said in the car on the way back to Central.

"You really don't get around much, do you?" Tim answered.

"I guess it makes sense, someone married to Dewey needing a little help in that department," Lewis said, and Tim laughed in spite of himself.

Tim drove back to the station on autopilot, not really noticing the scenery and ignoring Lewis' theories about how they should fix up the bar. Once he was back at his desk, he stared at his empty coffee cup for a second, then called Juana. Once she'd finished freaking out at being called by a police detective, she confirmed it was around 1:30 when she'd dropped her friend off. Lewis started the long process of looking through Dewey's case files. Cox called after a while and said it would be a few days before they got toxicology results, but from all indications Tim was right--Dewey'd been drunk or high when someone had suffocated him with a pillow. They'd swabbed the bedclothes for DNA and dusted the scene for prints, but who knew if, or when, anything useful would show up.

Cooper and Sherman brought a couple hookers in to be interviewed late in the afternoon, Alison and Cherie. Cooper stood back and let Sherman hand them over, which he did with the same kind of quiet confidence he'd exhibited at the crime scene.

Alison was a bottle blonde pretending she was still in her twenties, although she had to be pushing forty. Cherie, who might have actually been a redhead, was pretending to be eighteen, but Tim guessed she was closer to sixteen. He didn't think they were actually related, but Alison was protective of the younger girl--protective to the point that she was preventing Cherie from telling them more than the bare minimum--they knew Dewey, who was an asshole who paid in sufficient amounts of booze and cash to get what he wanted.

"Anything different about Dewey lately?" Tim asked. "He seeing any new girls, having any money problems?"

"No, he had cash, same as always," Alison said. Cherie didn't say anything, just looked at Alison out of the corner of her eye.

"Thank you for your time, Alison--you can go," Tim said, standing up to escort her out of the room.

"What about Cherie?" Alison asked, looking back over her shoulder. "She don't know nothing; why aren't you letting her go?"

"Look, you and I both know Cherie is not eighteen," Tim said. "My partner's big on getting kids off the street. He just wants to talk to her, see if he can get her into a shelter."

"It won't work," Alison said definitively.

"No, it probably won't, but I've got to let him give it a try," Tim said soothingly.

"All right," Alison said reluctantly. "Just make sure you give her something to eat."

"We'll do that, I promise," Tim said, waving to a uniform to give her a ride home.

"So, what was going on with Dewey?" Lewis was saying when he got back into the interview room. "I get the feeling there was something new, something you noticed."

"He had coke on him the last couple times, instead of just cash," Cherie said reluctantly. "Offered me some as payment. I don't do that shit, you know? But I think he was using."

"Just coke?" Lewis asked.

"Far as I could tell," she said, frowning. "I didn't notice no needle marks."

"You know where he was getting it?" Tim asked.

"No idea. But I think it was pretty pure. Rhonda, down the block, she was with him one night, and she was talking the next night how good the shit was he was passing out."

"You know where this Rhonda hangs out?" Lewis asked, making a note of the name.

"Not no more," Cherie said, shaking her head. "Ain't seen her in a week, maybe two."

"She's missing?" Lewis said.

"I just haven't seen her lately, is all," Cherie said, clearly unwilling to say anything else.

"Okay, well, you think you could describe this Rhonda for us, and where she used to hang? Maybe talk to a sketch artist for us? It'd be a big help in our investigation," Tim said, hand on her shoulder, sweet talking for all he was worth.

"Yeah, I guess," she answered. "You think maybe Rhonda was part of this thing, with this cop getting killed?"

"Maybe she was, maybe not," Lewis said. "How long you say she's been missing?"

There was a knock on the window, so Tim left Lewis with Cherie and went into the observation room. "Hey, Gee wants you," Adams said, nodding in the direction of the captain's office. "And he's in one of his moods, just so you know."

"Thanks, Lydia," Tim said, touching her back as he passed, already organizing his thoughts.

"No problem, Tim. Just watch your ass."

He knocked on the door to Gee's office and walked in. "You wanted to see me, Captain?"

"Where are we on the Dudek murder, Bayliss?" Gee said, glowering. Definitely in one of his moods. Tim stayed close to the door.

"Well, Dr. Cox confirmed that it was suffocation, but we're waiting on the toxicology, and you know how backed up the lab is, so it could be a while. His wife's alibi checks out, so no luck there," Tim said, ticking things off on his fingers as he went. "Lewis and I were interviewing a couple hookers he was a regular with, and one of them seems to think he might have been on coke as well as booze, and that this other hooker, named Rhonda, she might know something. Only the thing is, she hasn't seen Rhonda in a week or two."

He glanced up to see how Gee was responding, but he was silent in his chair, his dark eyes and darker expression focused on Tim. "So maybe there's a connection. We're having her sit down with the sketch artist, and I was just about to give Vice a call, see if they know this Rhonda at all."

"I'm getting heat from the bosses on this one, Bayliss," Gee said with deceptive calm. "We need a suspect."

"I know, sir," Tim said.

"He was an asshole, but he was police," Gee reminded him, like he needed reminding.

"I know, I know. We're working the case, Lewis and me." Tim hoped he didn't sound like he was whining--he always felt like a repentant kid when Gee was on his case. It didn't help that Al Giardello was the only person in Robbery-Homicide who was taller than Tim. At least Gee was staying behind his desk.

"You and Lewis. What about Officer Brown? She was Dudek's partner--have you talked to her?" Gee asked pointedly. Shit.

"Yeah, Gee, we talked to her at the scene," Tim said, but he knew he was screwed, and rightly so. They should have brought Chickie in hours ago.

"At the scene. You didn't think maybe she should come in? You didn't think she might have more to say than a few words at the crime scene?" Gee asked, his voice getting louder.

"I'll call her, yeah, right away," Tim said quickly, his hand reaching for the doorknob. Gee was getting louder, not softer, which was good--it was when the captain was _quiet_ that you really had to watch it.

"You do that, Bayliss. You call her, you talk to her, you talk to Vice, you find this Rhonda, and you solve this case, understand me?" Gee hadn't quite reached full bellow yet, but he was well on his way.

"Yes, sir, I understand," Tim answered, then got out of there before Gee could go on.

Lydia gave him a sympathetic look when he walked by her desk. "I told you he was in one of his moods," she said.

"Hey, at least he's not on your ass anymore, right?" Tim said.

"That may be, but Lieutenant Howard's still mad at me--I'm not sure she's ever going to forgive me for going after that reporter, even if he has," she answered with a smile.

"Give Kay some time and she'll come around," he advised.

"Easy for you to say--she likes you," Lydia answered.

"Yes, she does," he said smugly. Then he went back to his phone to call Chickie.

Chickie's partner, Officer Watson, answered the radio and said they'd be by after their shift ended in about an hour. Shawna from Vice said she'd ask around about Rhonda; Tim promised to email her the sketch once it was finished. That accomplished, he wandered over to Lewis' desk.

"Got anything?" he asked.

Lewis put down a case folder and started playing with the football on his desk. "From his cases? Like I told you earlier, Bayliss, there's too much here. We need to find some way to narrow it down. The mope's got more complaints than any ten police officers combined."

"Yeah, Russell said he was bragging about it at his so-called retirement party. Any of the complaints stand out as particularly grudge-worthy?"

"A few of the citations for excessive force, maybe. I'll have Russell make some calls, see what he can suss out," Lewis said, motioning for Clarke to come over.

"Sounds good," Tim said, even though it wasn't much. "Chickie should be here soon; maybe she can help narrow things down."

"Let's hope so, bunk--otherwise we're gonna be here for days," Lewis said, frowning. Tim nodded in acknowledgment and headed back to his desk.

Chickie didn't have much for them that day. The next afternoon, though, they got a break. Chickie came by again, and this time she had Cooper and Sherman with her. The two men were poker-faced, but Chickie looked excited.

"I was talking to John and Ben at lunch," Chickie said, "and we got to thinking about that hooker who was holding a gun on Timmy Davis--did you hear about that, Bayliss?"

"Nah, that was before he got back," Lewis said, tossing Tim the football. "But I bet he's seen the pictures."

"The ones of Dewey bare-assed and handcuffed to the wall? How are those important?" Tim asked, tossing the ball back to Lewis, his attention on Cooper and Sherman.

"Because they were taken at Timmy Davis' house," Cooper said, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "And Timmy Davis just violated his parole. Sherman, here, was out to dinner with his family last night, and Davis was there too, higher than the proverbial kite, doing lines in the bathroom. Tell Bayliss what you did, Boot."

"I called it in," Sherman said, his eyebrows raised. "Got me out of dinner with my father, too, which was a bonus."

"Okay, okay, so Davis violated his parole," Lewis said. "I'm with Bayliss here--why is this important to our case? Did Davis kill Dewey? Because _that_ would be news."

"No, but he hooked Dewey up with his supplier. And his supplier. . ." Cooper said.

"What?" Bayliss asked.

"His supplier works for Marta Ruiz," Sherman filled in, looking at his partner sideways.

"You're shitting me," Lewis said, leaning back in his chair.

"I shit you not," Cooper responded with a grin.

"Okay, so Marta had Dewey killed? Why?" Tim asked, ignoring the look Lewis gave him at the "why."

"This is Dewey we're talking about," Chickie said. "I'm sure he did _something_ to piss her off." Lewis pointed a finger at her in acknowledgment of this basic truth.

"Still, suffocation with a pillow isn't exactly the Ruiz family way. There's got to be more to this," Tim said, trying to work it out.

"Yeah, you're right about that," Lewis agreed. "But it's a start. I'll give Sammy and Nate a call, see if they have anything for us. Drinks on the house for young Officer Sherman at the bar tonight."

"We'll be there, soon as we get off watch," Cooper said.

Tim busied himself with talking to the gangs detectives to cross-check known Ruiz associates with Dewey's cases, the location of Dewey's apartment, and the hookers and dealers in that area. Lewis bugged out at seven, claiming Billie Lou was sick, so he had to get to the bar to cover her shift. They really needed to find someone new to help out; it'd been tough since Munch'd left for Seattle.

By the time he finished up and got to the bar, it was about 9:30. Chickie and Watson were walking out the door when he got there, but Sherman and Cooper were still there. He'd seen Cooper out of uniform plenty of times, but this was the first time he'd seen Sherman in civvies--jeans and a black hoodie over a t-shirt. The kid looked good--relaxed, a smile on his face, elbows leaning on the bar.

"'Bout time you got here, Bayliss," Lewis said. "Could use your help with the taps."

"Jesus, Lewis, the man just got here--let him have a drink," Cooper said, reaching over the bar to snag a bottle and put it in front of Tim.

"Thanks, John," Tim said, twisting the top off. He'd really wanted a drink of water, but the beer was there, and he was thirsty.

"Did you find anything in Dewey's cases, sir?" Sherman asked.

"Jeez, kid, call me Tim, okay?" he said, taking a long pull on his beer.

"Yeah, okay, Tim," he said, a little bite in his voice, "as long as you stop calling me 'kid.'"

"You got a deal, uh, Ben, right?" he answered, slapping the kid--Ben--on his shoulder. His solidly muscled shoulder, Tim couldn't help noticing. Sherman didn't have either the bulk or the height of his partner, but Tim bet he'd be able to take care of himself in a fight. From what he'd heard, Sherman was also one hell of a shot. Seemed like Cooper'd gotten himself a good one this time.

"That's right," Ben answered, smiling again. He had a nice smile. "So, did you find anything?"

"Not really, no. The thing is, though, I'm off the clock now, and so are you, so let's forget about the late Officer Dudek for one night, all right?" Tim said, gesturing expansively.

"Yeah, _kid_, let the detective relax a little," Cooper said, grinning. "He's been working really hard, sitting at his fucking desk while we dealt with actual policework."

Tim took another drink, his back to Cooper. "Like Meldrick said, your money's no good here tonight, so take a load off and forget about work. You need another beer?"

"No, I'm good," Ben said. "You need another, John?"

"I'm fine," Cooper said. "I'm great. It's the end of another day doing the greatest job there is, and tomorrow we get to do it all again."

Tim ignored Cooper, taking another pull on his beer before turning back to Sherman. "You ever think of becoming a detective, Ben? You've got good instincts, I can tell."

"Detective? Right now I'm just focused on getting through my first year of patrol," Ben said, looking back and forth between Tim and Cooper. Meldrick was staying silent, but Tim knew he backed him in spirit, as a fellow murder police.

"And after that you'll do another year of patrol, and another, and in a few years you'll make training officer," Cooper said, like it was a foregone conclusion.

"See, I gotta tell you, I've been on patrol, I've been in SWAT, but detective work, that's where I really feel like I can make a difference," Tim said, putting his arm around Ben's shoulder.

"You were in SWAT?" Ben asked, doing a pretty good job of hiding that he was impressed. But Tim was a detective, and he could tell he'd made an impression.

"Yeah, Bayliss _was_ in SWAT, and then he pussied out and joined the mayor's security detail just so he could finagle himself a _desk job_," Cooper said derisively, shifting on his stool.

"I speak for the dead," Tim said solemnly. "It's a calling."

Cooper grabbed Sherman's arm to get his attention. "Stick with me, Sherman, and you'll see more police work in an average week than this hump sees in a year."

Sherman grinned at both of them. His chin dropped and his eyebrows went way up towards his hairline--it was oddly attractive. "Hey, the two of you need to go settle something, I'm sure there's someplace more private you could go."

Lewis laughed. "He's got a point, Bayliss."

"Yeah, yeah, you said something about the taps?" Tim said, getting up from his stool. His face felt a little flushed.

When he got back to the front, Lewis had turned on the television above the bar. It was showing yet another special on Michael Jackson.

"Lewis, change the channel," he said, his shoulders tense.

"What's wrong, Bayliss--you got something against the King of Pop?" Lewis answered, frowning.

"No, I've got something against pedophiles," he snapped, then took a breath, aware that everyone was looking at him. "Look, just, change the channel, okay, Meldrick?" he asked.

"Sure, no problem," Lewis answered, switching to Wimbledon coverage on ESPN. Tim could see him open his mouth, then close it again--knowing Lewis, he was thinking Jackson was acquitted, like that meant anything. Cooper was trying to catch his eye; Tim bet he was going to change the subject inconspicuously in a second. Sherman was just quiet, watching everyone.

"I bet you played tennis as a kid, huh?" Cooper said to Sherman, right on cue. "Or was it golf?"

"Golf is my father's game, not mine," Sherman said, sitting back on his stool, the bite back in his voice. "I played some tennis, yeah, but mostly I swam," he added after a second. Tim wondered what the story was with Sherman--there was definitely a lot more to him than the average rookie patrol officer.

"You were a swimmer, too, weren't you, Bayliss?" Lewis said, and from there the conversation took off again, thankfully never returning to the topic of Michael Jackson.

Cooper left at 10, Sherman at 10:30, saying they had watch the next morning. The rest of the time until closing dragged, but Tim got through it, wishing he had the next day off. At least the bar wasn't far from his apartment.

He overslept the next morning, forcing himself out of bed with barely enough time to get to Central. The day didn't improve from its beginning--despite the break they'd gotten from Sherman, they weren't really getting anywhere with the Dudek murder, especially not in tying it to Marta. Gee wasn't saying much, just glaring from behind his desk, but Howard was hovering constantly, and Lewis was grasping at straws to make connections that just weren't there.

They rounded up Davis' dealer and brought him in that morning, but he wasn't holding anything when they picked him up. The dealer had the typical tattoos; he was also so skinny Tim figured he was using as much as he was dealing. They knew he worked for the Ruiz family, but they had no leverage, and the dealer knew it. He asked for a lawyer the moment he was arrested and never said another word, just sat in the Box smirking, his fingers tapping on the table; they had to let him go.

Lewis put Russell on Dewey's case files, since he was still on desk duty, but the rest of the detectives were focused on the Davis-Ruiz connection. Everyone wanted a chance to put Marta away, but they'd been burned so many times before--they'd think they had a break, that they'd finally get a chance to put her away for good, and it would all slip away. Just like it had when Junior shot up the squadroom, or during the raid where Tim had gotten shot, or when Marta's thugs went after that witness at Lydia's house.

Tim remembered a time when the Ruiz family wasn't the focus of the entire LAPD Detective Division. He missed that time, back when he felt like they were actually solving some of the cases that landed on the Board under their names, solving them and knowing there was a good chance there would be a conviction and some associated jail time. The past two years it was like beating his head against a wall, time and time again. He wanted to hope it would be different this time, but he was afraid to.

They brought in as many of the lower level Ruiz dealers they could round up, but none of them had anything to say. Shawna hadn't found anything on Rhonda yet, either, and she was starting to get annoyed at Tim for calling her so often.

Cox called that afternoon to verify the cocaine in Dewey's system, so there was that, anyway. It would take another week before they could get any DNA from the scene, and that was with a rush put on it by the bosses.

The next day was more of the same, and Thursday started out to be just as much of a slog. But late in the day they finally found Rhonda by Dodger Stadium, stuffed in a trunk, same as Chuco Salazar.

How they found her--shot in the head and left in a trunk--wasn't surprising. The surprise was that Cooper and Sherman recognized her. Apparently she was the woman who'd been dancing around with Dewey's utility belt at Timmy Davis' party.

The Ruiz family had taken her out, that much was clear, but the why, and how it was connected to Dewey's death, remained a mystery. And of course they had no evidence to speak of, just the slug from her head, which didn't match any they had on record.

Lewis and Bayliss brought Timmy Davis, who'd been let out on bail, back in for questioning. He had his lawyer, a statuesque blonde who looked like an early convert to Botox, with him.

"My client is willing to answer some questions as gesture of good faith," the lawyer said coolly, her face a studied mask of professional indifference. Or maybe that was the only expression she could make; Tim wasn't sure.

"We appreciate that, Mr. Davis," Tim said, refocusing. "We'd like to ask you about a woman who was seen at one of your parties, Rhonda Lopez."

Davis shrugged, cool and collected behind his designer shades. "There are lots of girls at my parties, so you're going to have to be more specific. I don't remember names too well. All my brain cells have to focus on learning scripts," he added, tapping his forehead. What a prick.

"This particular woman took Officer Dudek's utility belt and sidearm. I would think that might be memorable," Tim said.

"I remember that happened, sure--those other cops came, took the gun off her, but they left Dewey still cuffed in my spare bedroom," Davis said with a hint of a smile. "I don't think he got out of there until the next morning. But which woman it was, that I don't remember."

Tim knew Davis was lying, but he didn't know why. If he had nothing to do with Dewey's death, why not admit to knowing Rhonda?

"Maybe this will help you remember," Lewis said, shoving a picture of Rhonda's body across the table.

Davis flinched and sat back in his chair. "Shit, bro, what the fuck are you showing me that for?" Tim wasn't convinced--the guy wasn't that good an actor.

"Really, detectives, was that necessary?" the lawyer interjected. "My client has already told you he doesn't remember this woman."

"This woman had a name," Tim said, trying to hide his annoyance. "Rhonda Lopez. She was found this morning, shot in the head and dumped by Dodger Stadium."

"Look, I'm sorry the chick is dead," Davis said. "But I told you, I don't remember her. You say she was at that party, I believe you, but I don't remember her."

"Detectives, I think we're done here," the lawyer said, and that was that.

"You think anything he said in there was the truth?" Lewis asked after they were gone. He was twisting the rim of his hat between his fingers.

"I don't know, I think maybe he wasn't lying when he said Dewey was still in cuffs until the next morning, but the rest of it--there's something we're missing here, Meldrick."

"No shit," Lewis answered, frowning.

None of it made any sense. If the Ruiz family had Dewey killed, why? Had they used the pillow to throw them off the scent? The pillow made more sense if it was an impulse kill, born of the moment, but then who was the perp? And how exactly was Davis involved?

The media had been all over the Davis story--his mug shot showed up on TMZ moments after his arrest--but Davis seemed unconcerned, despite a leak that had tied him to the Dudek murder and the Ruiz family.

Tim called the crime lab again. "Tina, please tell me you've got something," he said to his favorite technician, the one who'd said she'd try to put a rush on some of the DNA.

"I was just about to call you," she said, and she sounded excited. "We pulled some DNA from the condom. We've already matched the semen to Dewey, which was a no-brainer, but we're running the vaginal secretions right now. Y'all got a sample on that dead girl, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, Cox does that with every body," Tim answered. "I don't know if it's been run yet, though."

"I'll check, and if it hasn't been run yet, I'll do it myself."

"Thanks, Tina--I owe you," he said, mentally reconfiguring his plans for the day.

"Yeah, you do, and not just for this," she said, but he could tell she was smiling when she said it.

He went to get some lunch, then stopped at the bar to grab a bottle of Tina's favorite wine. When he got to the lab to give it to her, she greeted him with a grin.

"You got the results already?" he asked, exchanging the bottle in his hands with the file in hers. He definitely owed her if she'd pushed them through that fast.

"I did indeed," she answered. "Dewey slept with Rhonda the night he died, dude. DNA don't lie--she was there, within a few hours of his death."

"Thank you," Tim said sincerely.

"No, thank you," she answered, hoisting the bottle. "Good luck."

He didn't say anything to Lewis when he got back to Central, just handed him the file and watched him read.

"Well, well, well," Lewis said. "This is some interesting evidence, Detective Bayliss."

"What do you think?" Tim asked.

"There wasn't a struggle," Lewis said, flipping the file against his thigh. "He knew his killer, or he was so passed out he couldn't fight. Either way, he coulda been done in by a woman."

"By Rhonda," Tim agreed. "But why?"

Lewis shrugged. "He pissed her off? He didn't pay her enough, or give her enough coke? I don't give a shit about why--what we need is some evidence, or, better yet, a confession."

"Maybe someone paid Rhonda to kill Dewey," Tim said thoughtfully. "Paid her, then killed her to keep us off the track."

They started over again, re-interviewing people, rounding up anyone who might have known Rhonda, including all the people they could find who'd been to Timmy Davis' party that night. He and Lewis held a briefing with the detectives from Vice and Gangs, plus those from Robbery-Homicide. Tim knew he was doing everything he could, so he was safe from the Captain's wrath, but he still got a little nervous every time he caught Gee in the background, glowering.

Tim got home late Thursday night, still frustrated, then got up early, went through his routine, and headed back to the office for more interviews and more briefings. Maybe they'd never solve the case--or worse, they'd put it down to Rhonda without any actual proof just to satisfy the bosses, who wouldn't care if they never solved Rhonda's murder as long as they at least had a close on Dewey.

The interviews started to blur together that afternoon, denial upon denial, the rare person even willing to admit they'd met any of the parties involved. Tim was staring at the long-cold dregs of his coffee and wondering if it was worth it to make some more when the phone on his desk rang.

"Detective Bayliss," he answered by rote.

"Tim, hey, it's Shawna."

"Shawna, hi," he answered, pleased to hear her voice.

"Listen, you have some time? I've got someone here I think you should talk to."

"Sure, bring them on in," he said, although the truth was they had interviews still stacked up waiting for both rooms and detectives.

"No, that won't work--listen, can't you come out here? She's not going to be willing to come in, but I think I can get her to talk to you here."

"Where's here?" he asked. Shawna gave him an address near Santa Monica Boulevard, and he told her he'd be there in twenty minutes.

He couldn't find Meldrick in any of the interview rooms, so he gave up looking and left a message with Naomi. He was afraid he'd be late, but fortunately he made it to Shawna's location on time. She was standing there alone, dressed in her usual work get-up, which always made him grateful to be a man--those heels looked painful. After he'd parked she led him through an alley and behind a building, where a girl who couldn't have been more than fifteen was waiting. She was stick-thin, her long black hair dry and limp. Tim wanted nothing more than to give her a sandwich and a safe place to sleep.

"Detective Bayliss, meet Nicole. Nicole, this is the detective I was telling you about."

Nicole nodded, looking around nervously.

"It's nice to meet you, Nicole," Tim said, figuring polite was his best chance at not scaring her completely off. "Shawna said you wanted to talk to me--what's going on?"

Nicole glanced at Shawna.

"It's okay, honey," Shawna told her, patting her shoulder maternally. "Like I said, Detective Bayliss just needs information. He won't tell anyone where it came from, I promise--right, Bayliss?"

"That's right," Tim said, with a look at Shawna. This had better be worth it. "What is it you wanted to tell me, Nicole?"

Nicole bit at her thumbnail, then spoke quickly. "It's about Rhonda and that cop who got killed."

"Oh yeah?" Tim said with what he hoped was an encouraging tone of voice.

"Yeah," she said, nodding. "See, I heard--there was this actor, he knew Rhonda and some of the girls; sometimes he would send around for girls to come to his parties, like, you know? I never got to go, though, but my friend Stacy, she went a couple times, and she hung out with Rhonda sometimes, and she told me Rhonda was real tight with that actor guy. She said Rhonda was high this one night and let it spill that this guy wanted some cop dead."

"Your friend Stacy heard Rhonda say Timmy Davis wanted this cop, Officer Dewey, dead?" Tim asked carefully.

"She didn't say the cop's name, least not to me," Nicole said. "But, yeah, Timmy Davis, that's the actor's name."

"Did your friend say why Davis wanted the cop killed?" Shawna asked.

Nicole shrugged. "Stacy didn't say nothing to me about it."

They talked to Nicole for a few more minutes, but they didn't get any more useful information. Tim thought about offering to take her to a shelter, but he knew Shawna would have a far better chance of helping Nicole than he would, so he settled for giving her the granola bar he had in his pocket. Nicole left with a disinterested wave, and before Tim could ask, Shawna volunteered to try to find Stacy.

"I'll call you if I can find her," Shawna promised. "I've got some ideas, but it might take some time."

Tim had ignored his phone while he was talking to Nicole, even though it buzzed against his hip several times. It buzzed again now, and this time he answered it.

"Where the fuck are you, Bayliss?" Meldrick said.

"Finding out Timmy Davis wanted Billy Dudek dead. Where the fuck were you when I was looking for you?" Tim responded, annoyed.

"Interviewing one Luis Salinas, thirteen years old. He was just picked up by narcotics, and he just so happens to be a great-nephew of Marta Ruiz," Lewis said grandly.

"Oh yeah?" Tim said, heading for the car. "He give you anything good?"

"Not yet, no," Lewis admitted. "But I just bet if you and I work on him together a bit, he's gonna start spilling his guts--don't seem like he's gotten himself hard yet. What's this about Timmy Davis?"

"I'll tell you when I get back," Tim answered. He stopped for some take-out on his way back to Central--he had a feeling it was going to be a long night, but all the OT would be worth it if it led to a good bust.

He was right about both. He and Lewis went at Salinas hard, and eventually it paid off--the kid cracked around midnight. He'd been there the night that Timmy Davis showed up and begged Marta to take care of a little problem for him. The problem was Rhonda, who had agreed to smother Dewey in exchange for $5,000 and ten grams of coke. Then, when Davis had only come up with a fraction of that, she'd threatened to go to the cops.

Lewis and Bayliss leaned back in their chairs, looking at each other. This was going to be huge. Tim went to call Gee, and Lewis called Major Crimes.

Major Crimes and SWAT joined them on the busts, which turned out to be a wise decision--while Marta was used to the routine, coming in without complaint, lawyer in tow, Davis had barricaded himself in his house and was threatening to shoot himself rather than allow himself to be arrested. They finally brought him in to Central around three in the morning, through a crowd of reporters, paparazzi, and curious onlookers.

It only took about fifteen minutes before he was crying, spilling his guts about the whole thing, confirming everything both Nicole and Salinas had said. Danvers practically had a hard-on, he was so excited. This wasn't going to be another O.J. Simpson case--Davis was going to give them enough to put Marta away for good.

***

He was back at Marta Ruiz's house, around the back, and someone was aiming at Frank. They were going to kill him and he was just standing there. He tried to get in front, to save Frank, but he was too late; Frank was down, a perfect, round hole in his forehead.

The phone rang. He shook the dream off as best as he could and answered.

"Yeah, what, hello?"

"Shit, Tim, did I wake you?" It was Cooper's voice.

"Yeah, you did," Tim said, rubbing his eyes. "What is it?"

"You are aware that it's a holiday, right? And, furthermore, a holiday on which neither you nor I are on call?" Cooper said with more enthusiasm than Tim was ready to deal with at the moment.

"Which is why I was _asleep_, asshole."

"Fuck that--you can sleep when you're dead. Come over. Cesar and I are having a little barbeque. I think I even have some of those disgusting veggie burgers left in the freezer from the last time you were here."

"What time is it?" Tim asked. The sun was up, but that didn't mean he wanted to be.

"Now? It's 11:30, sleepy-head. So get up, get dressed, and come over."

"I only got home four hours ago, John. I'll see you around 5:00, okay?" Tim said, fighting a yawn.

"3:30," Cooper said definitively.

"4:00," Tim answered, through the yawn he couldn't fight off anymore.

"Deal. And bring some beer."

"Beer, right, fine, see you later," Tim answered, hanging up and tossing the phone back on the table.

He set the alarm for 2:30 and went back to sleep, didn't remember any more dreams when he woke at 2:25 and turned it back off. After his morning meditation, some yoga, and a shower he felt mostly human again, although he had to stop himself from calling Frank, who was no doubt celebrating the holiday with his wife and kids. Fortunately he had a couple sixpacks in the fridge in the garage--he didn't really feel like dealing with holiday crowds at the market. With his luck, someone would recognize him from last night's bust--he was sure it was all over the news, not that he'd turned the television on to confirm it.

There wasn't much traffic, so he got there right on time, parking on the street behind someone on a motorcycle who turned out to be Cooper's partner. He waved the kid over once he'd finished taking his helmet off.

"Hey, Ben, how's it going?" he asked. The sun was shining, he had the next couple days off; all of a sudden he was in a good mood.

"Fine, Tim. And, uh, thanks for what you did on the Dudek case."

Tim figured Ben was just being polite--he'd only known Dewey a few months, and he knew Sherman and Cooper had been the ones to answer Chickie's call when Dewey flipped their car. "Just doing my job. You ever been to one of these before?"

"You mean one of John's barbeques? No, this is my first time." Ben smiled at him, and Tim couldn't help smiling back.

"He doesn't always invite his trainees, you know," he said.

Tim could see Ben didn't know how to respond to that, but he was saved from trying when they reached Cooper's front door. "Tim, welcome!" Cesar said, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him inside. "It's good to see you again, my friend," he added, giving him a quick hug.

"Good to see you, too, Cesar," he answered, looking over his shoulder to see where John was.

"And you must be Ben, John's new partner," Cesar said, motioning for Sherman to come in. "I'm Cesar, John's roommate."

Roommate, huh? Tim thought. So that's how they were playing it--Cooper must not have come out to his partner yet. Which was weird, if he'd been reading Ben right, but Cooper was his partner, so maybe it made sense to him to be more cautious.

"Bayliss, Sherman, get your asses over here and help me with this keg," Cooper called from the door into the garage. Tim went, Ben and Cesar following.

"You," Cooper said, pointing at Tim, "will get this sucker tapped. You," pointing at Ben, "move it out onto the deck, on the table in the corner."

"You know, John, I've finished my physical therapy and been declared fit for duty," Tim said, looking at Cooper sideways. "My back is fine. I can lift a keg."

"Shut up and let the kid do it," Cooper answered, glaring so that Tim knew he'd picked up on his oh-so-subtle hint. Judging by Ben's expression, he'd caught it as well, but he didn't say a word, just hoisted the keg effortlessly and carried it into the house. Tim shared one last look with Cesar before he grabbed the tap and followed Ben out to the patio.

After he got the keg tapped and his own beers in the cooler, Tim caught up with a few of John and Cesar's friends he hadn't seen in a while. He noticed Ben talking to Chickie and a couple other people who looked vaguely familiar. He didn't know any of them by name except Chickie, but it looked like they all knew Ben.

Eventually the burgers came off the grill, and Tim loaded up his plate with food. He looked around a minute before seeing a shady corner of the lawn Ben and Chickie had staked out. They returned his wave, so he went to join them.

"Hey, Bayliss, can I ask you something?" Chickie said after they'd made it through most of their respective meals.

"Of course," he answered, hoping he didn't have anything in his teeth.

"A few years back, you said you might put in a word for me with the Lieutenant at SWAT," she said, and he nodded.

"Sure, I remember. You decided not to apply back then--have you changed your mind?"

"Yeah, I have. I mean, I keep talking about it, but this time I'm really going to do it," she said, but she sounded a bit unsure. "Do you still have any juice with the lieutenant?"

"I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "It's been close to ten years, and I'm not sure he ever forgave me for leaving. But I'm happy to give it a try."

"That would be great," Chickie said. "The application deadline is in a couple weeks, so I'll let you know after I've gotten it in, if that's all right."

"Yeah, yeah, just let me know, and I'll give him a call, no problem."

"Thanks, Tim, I really appreciate it," she said, then turned to fish her ringing phone out of her pocket. "Hey, it's my son, I've got to take this," she said, standing up and moving away.

"So, you having a good time?" Tim asked Ben, immediately wishing he'd come up with a better opening than that. It was at that moment he realized just how invested he was in making some sort of connection with Ben. He sat back to cover his embarrassment.

"Yeah, it's good; it's a nice party," Ben answered, putting his plate on the ground and turning slightly to face Tim more squarely. "How long have you known John?"

"Uh, a couple years, I guess," Tim answered. "I mean, I've known who he is for longer than that, you know? But we've been friends for a couple years."

Ben nodded.

"You're lucky having him as your training officer," Tim said. "He's one of the best."

Ben nodded again. "I wasn't sure at first," he said thoughtfully, "but yeah, I think he is."

"My training officer was an asshole," Tim offered, and Ben grimaced in commiseration.

"What you said in the bar that night--did you always want to be a detective? Is that why you joined the force?" Ben was leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees, looking directly at Tim.

"No, no, see, I wanted to be the best, that's what I wanted. And I thought that was SWAT, so I was thrilled when I got that posting," Tim answered, meeting Ben's eyes.

"Why'd you leave, then?" Ben asked.

He looked genuinely interested, and Tim surprised himself by telling the truth, or most of it.

"I was always a good shot--like you, I hear," he said, and Ben lowered his chin in acknowledgment. "But with the exception of a few squirrels when I was a teenager, I'd only ever shot targets, or skeet shooting, that kind of thing. My uncle kept trying to get me to go deer hunting, but I just wasn't interested. That wasn't why I did it, you know?" Ben nodded again, and from the look in his eyes it wasn't empty agreement--he understood.

"The thing is, I was fine in the training exercises. I was good when I started, but I got better--the lieutenant said I should enter competitions, but that wasn't what I wanted either; I just loved the feeling of calmness, of certainty." Tim clenched his hands around the rifle he could almost feel, metal warming under his touch. "Then I started going out on calls. It was fine at first. I knew what I was supposed to be doing, I knew how to do it, and I was fine. It didn't matter that I had my sights perfectly on someone's head, not a target.

"But one day we got a call that there was some kid in a church, holding parishioners hostage. See, the kid, he'd been abused by his step-father, who was the preacher there. And the kid, this kid, he had taken it, for years--but now the preacher was going after his younger brother. And the kid snapped, and he was holding a knife to his stepfather's throat and threatening to blow up the church. And, you know, it was my job to take this kid out, if I got the order, and indications were I was going to get the order."

Ben was looking at him intently, but Tim was even more sure that it was because he got it.

"I had my finger above the trigger, just how I'd been trained," Tim said, his hands in position in front of him, remembering. "And I was ready. I had him in my sights. I knew I could get him before he could slash the preacher's throat, and I was ready to do it, just waiting for the order."

"What happened?" Ben asked softly.

"They found the bomb the kid had rigged and deactivated it, and then they snuck in from one of the windows and disarmed the kid without anyone getting hurt," Tim said, putting his hands down.

"That's good, right?" Ben asked, eyebrows up. "No one getting hurt, that's as good as it's gonna get."

"Yeah, yeah, it was. But the thing is, once I got the order to stand down, it was like throwing a switch, and I realized just how close I'd come to killing that kid, that kid who'd been abused for years and was just trying to help his brother. Don't get me wrong--if I'd gotten the order, it would have been the only thing to do. It would have been the job I'd signed up for, and I probably would have gotten some sort of commendation for it. And if I'd heard, just that morning, about someone else going through the same thing, I'd think that cop should be proud of what he'd done."

"But you wouldn't any more," Ben said.

"No, I wouldn't," Tim answered. "See, once I realized it was over, I clicked the safety, I unloaded, I put the rifle down, and I lost my lunch."

"I think the only reason I didn't puke when I shot that guy back in April was because I'd already done that at a decomp earlier that day," Ben said, his mouth quirked up at the corner. "That and all the people watching."

"You know," Tim said after a moment, "I've never told anyone that story before."

"I've got that kind of a face," Ben said, with more of an actual smile this time. "People are always telling me things."

"It's a nice face, don't knock it," Tim answered, smiling back. "And, hey, it's your turn--why'd you want to become a cop?"

"You mean you haven't heard the story already?" Ben asked, sitting back. "I thought it was common knowledge by this point."

"What, about your dad the defense attorney and your mom getting beat up by drug dealers? Yeah, I've heard that story. But I'm betting there's more to it. See, I thought at first you were, what, 23 or so, right out of college. But you're not, are you?"

"No, I'm not," Ben said, tilting his head to the side. "Just for curiosity's sake, how old do you think I am?"

Tim took a good look at Ben's face, remembering the lines that showed up on his forehead when he laughed, seeing the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes. "You're like me," he said. "People always think you're younger than you are. You're getting closer to thirty than twenty. Twenty-seven, that's my guess."

"I'll be twenty-eight in August," Ben said, clearly pleased. "And you, now? I'm thinking mid-thirties. I'll go with thirty-six."

"Close--I'm thirty-eight," Tim answered, also pleased. "But you still haven't answered my question."

Ben shrugged and looked away for a second. "I thought about becoming a cop when I was in high school, but I wanted to go to college, and I ended up going Navy ROTC to pay for it. I spent a couple years on a carrier out in the Pacific before I went to the academy."

"Doesn't the Navy require more years than that?" Tim asked. "Or are you in the Reserves?"

"No, I'm not in the Reserves," Ben answered, flushing a little. "I, uh, met someone on tour, someone on my ship," he said after a moment. "We kept it quiet for a while, but someone who didn't like him found out and reported us, and after a while we weren't in the Navy anymore."

"I'm sorry," Tim said, relieved he hadn't misread the signals he thought he'd been getting from the first time he met Ben. "It's a fucking stupid regulation."

"Yeah," Ben said. "Yeah, it is. It didn't bother me that much, but Scott--his dad and his grandfather were Navy; it was all he ever wanted to do."

"You two still together?"

"No. It didn't work once we were on land. Shipboard romance, I guess," Ben said with that quirk of his mouth again.

"I'm sorry," Tim said again, although he really wasn't. If he was reading things right, Ben wasn't sorry either.

"Don't be," Ben answered. "Yeah, it sucked, but if it hadn't happened that way, I'd still be in the Navy."

"Did you start at the Academy right after it happened?"

"No, I did some bartending for a year first--wanted to make sure I was making the right decision for the right reasons, you know?"

"Yeah," Tim said. He still wasn't sure he'd joined the force for the right reasons, but he'd made the decision a lot younger than Ben had. "Does John know?"

"About the Navy?" Ben asked. Tim nodded. "No, I haven't told him. Like I said, at first I wasn't sure about him, and it never really came up."

"So he doesn't know you're gay," Tim said.

"Bi, like you," Ben corrected absently. "No, he doesn't know. Last he heard, I had just broken up with my girlfriend."

"You know I'm bi?" Tim asked.

"Tim, the entire LAPD knows you're bi, thanks to your website," Cesar said, coming up from behind him and putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's not like you've ever tried to hide it."

"I've seen the website," Ben admitted, but he looked a bit put out. "It's good--I liked the Buddhist stuff."

"Thanks," Tim said, his face warm. "But, you know, Ben, you really should tell John."

Ben frowned. He put his hands behind him and leaned back, resting his weight on them.

"Tell John what?" Cesar asked. "That he's bi? He's absolutely right, dude. In fact, I think you should tell him right now. I'd tell him myself, but it would be better coming from you. Hey, John, get your ass over here," he said, waving.

"What's so important?" Cooper asked. His face was a little flushed, whether from the sun or beer, Tim wasn't sure.

"Ben's got something to tell you," Cesar told him, moving his hand from Tim's shoulder to Cooper's arm. Ben was still frowning, but he sat forward again, watching Cooper and Cesar.

"What is it?" Cooper said. "Is Bayliss trying to recruit you again? Because I'm telling you, you do not want to be chained to some desk all day."

"Just tell him, Ben," Tim said, fighting a ridiculously strong urge to grab him around the neck and ruffle his hair.

"Tell him, mijo," Cesar added.

"Just fucking tell me already," Cooper said. "What is your big secret, Tori? Did David Silver forget to ask you to the prom?"

Ben looked away, biting his lip, then dropped his chin. "Okay, okay, fine," he said tightly. "I was in the Navy before I went to the Academy, and I was kicked out for having a relationship with another guy on our ship. That's the story."

"What are you saying, Sherman?" Cooper asked, leaning back on his heels and opening his arms wide. "You like to drive stick? You're a friend of Dorothy? You're a fudge-packer? Because last time I checked, you liked girls. Are you sure it wasn't just an experiment?"

Tim could see Ben wasn't happy with Cooper's response. For someone normally so sharp, the kid was really missing the obvious.

"No, it was not an experiment, and, yes, I like girls. I'm bi, John, all right? Do you have a problem with that?" Ben snapped.

"Do I have a problem with that, Cesar?" Cooper said with a huge grin, turning and putting his hands on Cesar's elbows. "You should know, after all, being a fudge-packer yourself."

"You know, you could have saved Ben a lot of confusion if you'd just come out to him yourself, asshole," Cesar answered, moving his hand from Cooper's shoulder to rest it on the back of his neck.

"You better not try to kiss me now," Cooper said, smiling at Cesar. "Because you know how I feel about PDA." He turned to grin at Ben, who looked flummoxed, and still a little pissed off. "You're never going to make detective with that kind of faulty gaydar, Boot."

"Like yours was any better, _sir_," Ben said, shaking his head.

"You got me there," Cooper said cheerfully. "I guess I'm not cut out for detective work either, unlike this guy. Bayliss, tell me you didn't have this figured out before he told you."

"I didn't know for sure, but I had a pretty good idea," Tim said.

"He guessed my age right, too," Ben said, glancing at Tim.

Cooper looked at Ben closely. "Twenty-seven," he pronounced.

"You fill out my book," Ben reminded him. "It has my birthdate on it."

"Which is coming up in another month, if I'm not mistaken," Cooper said. "You want me to bake you a cake? Bring it in to share with everyone?"

"Shut up," Ben said, standing up. "I'm going to get another beer--you want one, Tim?"

"Sure, that'd be great," Tim answered.

"I'll take a Corona," Cooper called after him. Ben gave him the finger, but he was carrying three beers when he came back.

"You okay?" Tim asked after Cooper and Cesar left again.

"Fine," Ben said, but he remained standing.

"Look, I'm sorry--" Tim started, but Ben interrupted.

"No, it's fine. It's not how I would have wanted it to come out--no pun intended," he added with a hint of a smile, "but it worked out okay. It'll be easier, now that he knows."

"I won't tell anyone," Tim said, but then they started letting off some fireworks next door, and it got too loud to say anything. After a moment Ben sat back down next to him, his knee brushing against Tim's.

Tim usually left John's parties an hour or so after eating, but this time he stayed well past his usual time. He and Ben had both switched from beer to soda after the fireworks, so he wasn't surprised when Ben stood up, stretched and said he was going to have to get going.

"Yeah, me too," he said, taking the hand Ben offered to help him up. "You have far to drive?"

"I have an apartment over on the west side," Ben answered vaguely, still holding Tim's hand. He licked his lip, released Tim's hand, and said, "Listen, I really liked hanging out tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner sometime."

"Yeah, yeah, I'd like that," Tim answered, feeling his ears get warm.

"Would Tuesday work? I've got a class that day instead of watch, so I'll be out early, and I'm not back at work until Thursday."

"Tuesday? Tuesday's good," Tim said. He thought he might have to work at the bar that night, but he'd get someone to cover his shift--Lewis and Janine both owed him.

"Great," Ben said, smiling. "You're vegetarian, right?"

"That's right."

"I think I know a place--I'll see if I can get a reservation, and I'll call you with the time, if that works."

They exchanged numbers before Tim walked Ben to his bike, and then he wandered back into Cooper's yard, aware he was probably smiling more than normal.

"He asked you out, didn't he?" Cooper said, peering at him in the light from the patio.

"What? How do you know I didn't ask him out?" Tim said, pointing at Cooper.

"Did you?" Cooper asked, sounding confident he knew the answer.

"No," Tim admitted. "He beat me to the punch. Hey, you're okay with this, aren't you? I mean, I know he's your partner--"

"Shut up, Tim," Cooper interrupted. "It's fine."

"He might ask about you and me," Tim said, looking at Cooper to gauge his reaction.

Cooper nodded. "Probably. Tell him."

"You're sure?" Tim asked.

"Of course I'm sure," Cooper said firmly. "Just, no details, okay? In either direction. Or I'll dig up everything I can find on Lewis' sexual exploits and share them with you at every single opportunity, understand?" The corner of his mouth was turned up at that last comment, which was typical.

"Yeah, yeah, I understand. Listen, I'm going to take off, all right? It was a great party," Tim said, clasping Cooper's shoulder and then waving to Cesar, who was picking up empties to put in the recycling.

Tim kept smiling the whole way home.

***

He was on call starting at midnight, so of course he got called out on a homicide early the next morning. It turned out to be a suicide, but it took all day to get to that figured out, so he didn't get home until late. Ben had left a message saying he'd made seven o'clock reservations at Akasha, in Culver City.

He looked at the clock on the microwave--9:25 was pretty late to call someone who started work at seven, but he didn't want Ben to think he was ignoring him, so he dialed the number anyway. Besides, who was he kidding, he wanted to hear Ben's voice again. It was pretty ridiculous--he was acting like a school kid.

Ben answered the phone on the second ring with, "Tim, hey, how are you?"

Tim leaned against the kitchen counter, smiling idiotically. "Good, I'm good; sorry to call so late."

"No, don't worry about it; it's good to hear from you," Ben said.

They didn't talk long, since they both had an early shift in the morning. Ben said the chef was a friend of his mother; she wanted to prepare a special menu for the two of them.

"That's--hey, that's really nice, but it's not necessary," Tim said, feeling completely out of his element. A fancy restaurant in Culver City, the chef a friend of Ben's wealthy family--he hoped he'd be able to figure out which fork to use.

"I didn't ask her to or anything; she offered," Ben said. "She's done it a few times for birthdays, that kind of thing--it'll be a good meal. She started out in a vegetarian restaurant, so that works. She needs to know if you have any allergies or special preferences, though."

"Uh, I'm allergic to strawberries," Tim said awkwardly. "Other than that and being vegetarian, I'm pretty flexible."

"No strawberries, okay, I'll let her know," Ben said. "I'll email you the website, with some directions--they don't have valet parking during the week, and the lot's a little hard to find if you haven't been there before."

"All right, thanks," Tim said. Valet parking. Culver City.

"Hey, we can go somewhere else if you'd rather," Ben said.

"No, no, it sounds great," Tim said, hitting himself in the forehead. "I'm really looking forward to it." Which he was, even if he was a bit freaked out.

"So am I," Ben said, and Tim's breath caught at the warmth in his voice.

"I'm working at the bar tomorrow night," Tim told Ben before he said goodbye. Ben said he'd try to stop by with Cooper after their shift ended.

Tim rarely looked forward to a shift at the bar these days, but he spent that entire day checking the clock to see when he'd be getting off work and heading to his second job. Unfortunately, Ben called the bar late to say he and John had caught a robbery at the end of their watch, so Tim lost his chance to see him before Tuesday night.

Thanks to all the overtime he'd pulled on the Dewey case, he had Tuesday and Wednesday off, although he was on call on Wednesday. He was just glad he got a chance to sleep in on Tuesday, because he got to bed late Monday night and spent a few hours tossing and turning before he finally got to sleep.

He had a hard time concentrating on his yoga routine once he finally got up, and his mind was all over the place during meditation. He tried going for a run, but that didn't help much either, so he took a shower and resigned himself to being worthless for the rest of the day. Surprisingly, after that he was at least able to get some chores done. He spent too much time going through his closet deciding on which shirt, which pants, and whether or not he needed a jacket and tie, and at the end of it he wasn't particularly satisfied with his choice of striped button-down and sport-coat.

There was an accident on the 405, so he was a few minutes late getting to the restaurant. He pulled into the parking lot--it tucked away off a side street, so he was glad Ben had sent the directions--and wondered again what the hell he was getting himself into. Ben was ten years younger, he came from money--he was way out of Tim's league, even if he was a cop. It made no sense he was interested in Tim.

The restaurant was around the corner from the parking lot, and by the time Tim walked through the door, he was half convinced Ben wouldn't even be there. The interior was a surprise, the furniture made of leather and what looked like hemp, warm-colored tile on the floor, the wait staff wearing jeans and t-shirts he suspected were made of organic cotton. It felt more like a neighborhood vegetarian restaurant in a college town than the high-end restaurant with confusing silverware he'd been expecting. The overall effect was comfortable and inviting.

Ben was there, waiting, wearing a striped shirt over a black t-shirt. When Tim walked up to the table, Ben stood up, smiling openly, and touched his arm, all his body language saying, yes, this is who I am, and this is what I want. Whether or not it made any sense, the meaning was clear. So Tim took a breath, smiled, and allowed himself to believe it.

"This okay?" Ben asked, his gesture encompassing the booth they were seated in, the atmosphere, the whole restaurant.

"It's great," Tim said, meaning it.

They made some small talk for a few minutes until the waiter brought over a bottle of red wine, herbed olive oil, and bread. All of it was delicious, but Tim found himself paying more attention to watching Ben's mouth and hands than what he was eating.

Tim was working on a bite of salad, also delicious, when Ben asked him how he'd met Cooper. "It was at a case," he answered once he'd finished chewing. "You remember the Zodiac at all?"

"Restaurant in West Hollywood, right?" Ben asked, nodding. "Yeah, they had good pasta there. Whatever happened to that place?"

"The owner moved," Tim answered, wondering briefly how Chris was doing these days. "But before that, a few years back, he found a body in the dumpster behind the restaurant. Frank--that's my old partner, he retired a few months ago--Frank and I caught the case, and John was there, first officer on the scene. It was a hate crime, gay bashing, a really nasty case. The perp had skipped town on a material witness warrant in Maryland; the whole thing was a huge clusterfuck. You know Sammy and Nate, over in Gangs?"

Ben nodded. "Yeah, I know them."

"They were in Vice at the time, and they picked this asshole, Peter Fields, up on a solicitation charge, ran him through the system and picked up the warrant, but Maryland wouldn't pay to extradite him, so they let him go, and then he went and bashed this poor guy's skull in. Anyway, John knew the restaurant owner, Chris Rawls, and the two of them helped out a lot in our investigation."

Tim looked at Ben, who he figured was too polite to ask the question he wanted to ask. "I didn't--I wasn't too clear on a lot of things back then, was trying to figure some shit out I'd been refusing to deal with for years. Chris was flirting with me off and on while we were investigating the case, and after we solved it, he asked me out. And I guess I was sick enough of not being happy that I accepted."

Ben's eyebrows went up a little as he considered what Tim said. "You, uh, you hadn't--"

"I'd never acknowledged my bisexuality," Tim said quickly. "Not even to myself, not really." Tim was relieved when Ben didn't say anything, just nodded in understanding and waited for him to go on. Which he did.

"I was with Chris for a couple months. It was--it sounds ridiculous to say it, but it was a revelation, you know?" Ben nodded again. "I felt like an idiot, that I'd never let myself, that I could have gone the rest of my life cut off from half of who I was, who I am." Tim stopped, took a sip of water.

"You said he moved--what happened?" Ben asked quietly.

"His mom took sick, back in Ohio," Tim explained. "He's still there now, has a restaurant on the west side of Cleveland. It was for the best, really--it was great, being with him, but I didn't love him."

The waiter came by with their next course, couscous in a yellow curry with vegetables that looked like they'd just been picked that afternoon. Tim was a little relieved at the interruption--Ben's focused attention was heady, but intense.

"You and John, though, were you ever together?" Ben asked after the waiter left. "I mean, if you don't mind my asking."

"John and Chris were friends, so he knew what was going on with us," Tim said, remembering. "A couple days after Chris left for Ohio, John showed up at the bar, started harassing me; you know how he is."

Ben smiled. "I do, yeah."

"I gave it back to him, which was what he wanted. His divorce had just come through, and I was still sorting through some stuff. We went out a couple times. It wasn't ever anything serious, but we got to be good friends."

"What were you sorting out?" Ben asked.

"What I wanted," Tim said, looking down at his plate. "And why I couldn't have it."

He looked up and met Ben's eyes, seeing the question there. "It doesn't matter what--who--it was," he said. "Not anymore. It's not what I want now. I've changed," he added, and this time he really believed it. If Frank had shown up at that very moment and announced he'd left Mary, it wouldn't have mattered at all.

Ben nodded again. "That's good, huh?"

"Yeah, it is," Tim said, smiling. "It really is." He took a bite of his curry. "You know, this is excellent."

Ben smiled, and they both dug into their food for a few minutes.

Tim looked up again after a few bites. "You, uh, you have something," he said, and he reached out his thumb to catch the drop of sauce heading for Ben's chin. He couldn't help gently brushing Ben's bottom lip. Ben reached up and put his hand on Tim's wrist, holding it in place so that he could slowly lick the sauce off Tim's thumb, closing his eyes in concentration as he pulled it briefly into his mouth.

Tim closed his own eyes for a second, overwhelmed. When he opened them again, Ben was looking at him, a slow smile breaking over his face. Tim stroked his cheek, and Ben's hand followed his down to the table. They sat there for a moment, hands clasped together, until someone approached the table.

"Ben, honey, how are y'all enjoying your dinner?" said the woman in a chef's jacket who appeared in front of them.

"It's great, Akasha," Ben said, confirming Tim's suspicion that this was the restaurant's chef. She seemed as warm and inviting as her restaurant, but Tim wished she'd left them alone.

"You must be the vegetarian," she said, turning towards him. "You like that couscous?"

"It's delicious," Tim said. "Really, I've never had couscous this good before."

Ben introduced them, and he and Akasha made some more small talk while Tim ate a few more bites of couscous. When she finally left, Ben said, "She likes to make sure her customers are happy," his eyebrows raised. Tim laughed.

They had another five minutes of peace before they were interrupted again, Ben's face going from open and warm to shuttered and cold in an eyeblink. It was some guy named Wade, who had blond, artfully messy hair, referred to Ben as "Dude!" and apparently wanted his help in getting back together with Ben's sister. It took a few pointed statements before the asshole finally took the hint and left them alone.

"You know, we could just get the rest of this to go, if you want to get out of here," Ben said after Wade was out of earshot. "My place is only ten minutes from here."

"Yes," Tim said quickly, nodding, "absolutely." Ben flagged the waiter down and asked him to get their dessert and leftovers wrapped up, then paid the check so smoothly Tim could barely tell when it even happened.

He followed a sleek silver sedan to a sleek modern apartment complex, driving up to park behind Ben's car as it pulled into the garage. Ben waved him into the garage, and when he took the leftover containers from Ben's hands so he could open the door, he stood close enough to pick up Ben's scent. He moved even closer, dropping his head so his nose rested behind Ben's ear, lips at his neck. Ben froze, took a deep breath, then finished unlocking and opening the door.

They moved deliberately into the kitchen. Tim put the take out containers on the counter before turning towards Ben, putting his hands on Ben's hips, pulling him close and leaning down to finally, finally kiss him, open-mouthed and eager.

And then the phone on the counter started ringing. They ignored it, still kissing, until the answering machine picked up and a woman's voice said, "It's me, pick up, please!" and Ben pulled back, frowning.

"Fuck," he said softly, then, "it's my sister," and picked up the phone.

"What is it, Liv?" he said, giving Tim an apologetic look and moving away. "I'm kind of busy here--what do you need?"

Tim couldn't help overhearing the rest of Ben's end of the conversation, filled with things like, "Can't you call a cab?," "What do you mean, you don't have any cash?," and "You're killing me here, Livia." When Ben hung up, he was shaking his head, his jaw tight. "My sister is an idiot," he said. "I've got to go pick her up; I'm so sorry."

"No, it's okay, I understand," Tim said, moving towards the door and hoping he'd be able to figure out how to get back to the highway from here.

"You don't have to go," Ben said, his hand on Tim's arm. "You could stay, if you want. Eat some dessert, watch television, whatever. I should be back within an hour or so. I'd like it if you stayed."

"You're sure?" Tim asked. This wasn't exactly what he'd expected, but he didn't want the night to end.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I just wish I didn't have to go."

"Okay, I guess I'll see you when you get back, then," Tim said.

Ben kissed him again, brief and soft, his hand on Tim's face. When he pulled back, Tim followed, leaning in for another kiss before reluctantly letting Ben step away. "I'll be back as quick as I can, okay? Help yourself to anything you need--make yourself at home." Tim nodded. It was a little strange, being left here, trusted alone in the apartment, but maybe not to meet his sister--or maybe Tim was reading too much into it. Either way, it was better than driving home alone.

After Ben left, Tim wandered around the apartment, looking into the bedroom, the bathroom, and back out past the fireplace into the living room. There was expensive-looking artwork on the walls, expensive-looking furniture in the rooms, expensive-looking appliances in the kitchen and living room, none of it affordable on a first-year patrol officer's salary. The sheets on the bed were probably 800 thread count Egyptian cotton. Tim wondered why Ben hadn't been able to pay for college without ROTC, when he clearly had money to spare now.

Take a breath, let it go. He wandered back to the living room, found the remote, and, after some channel surfing, settled on Tour de France coverage. It was oddly hypnotic.

He woke when Ben sat down on the sofa next to him. "Hey," Ben said.

"Hey," he answered. He should have been embarrassed, falling asleep like that, but he wasn't, because Ben was there, smiling at him, reaching out to stroke his cheek and then moving closer, kissing him softly.

"Sorry I was gone so long," Ben said, shifting to his knees and turning to straddle Tim's legs, his hands now at Tim's waist.

"It's okay," Tim answered, because it was, and then he put his hands on Ben and pulled him close, burying his face in Ben's chest, his hand curved around the back of his neck, gently stroking up against the grain of the short hair there to cup Ben's head in his hand, smiling in a kind of pure joy like he hadn't felt in longer than he could remember. "It's okay," he said again to Ben's chest, and then he raised his head and their mouths met.

They moved into the bedroom, and there was a moment when Tim took his shirt off and Ben saw the scars, but he didn't say anything, just put his hand, warm and solid, over the deep pucker from the bullet, his lips above it on Tim's shoulder. He reached his other hand around and ran a finger inside the seam of Tim's boxers, and Tim moaned, and the moment passed without any awkwardness. And the next moment was there, and Ben was leading Tim over to the bed, and they were moving together, so good, so good, so right.

END

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me either at [my fannish tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/shellumbo) or [my pro writing tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sbyzmcpherson). Or you can follow either on Twitter: @shellumbo or @sbyzmcpherson. Or both!


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